


Fair & Foul

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2002-05-14
Updated: 2002-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, kinda: At the Prancing Pony, Butterburr has totally forgotten to give Frodo Gandalf's letter, so Aragorn has to convince them to trust them on his own merits. Spans between Bree & Rivendell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story was posted as a WIP to the frodo_slash yahoogroup, but has since been abandoned incomplete. Sorry!

"How do we know you are not lying? Making this all up, a ruse to trick us into going with you?"

Pippin sighed audibly from his position on the bed, half slumped in Merry's lap, and Merry quickly covered his cousin's mouth with a hand. Frodo gave them a sharp glance, then turned back to the man seated before him. Sam was to the side, crouched on the floor as if he were ready to pounce, not taking his eyes off the two before him. It was late. They had been discussing - _arguing, more like it_ Sam thought - for hours. He was weary. They were all weary, and the polite but stiff discourse of the early evening was now perched precariously on the edge of barely veiled insults, respectable upbringings not withstanding.

Strider raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. "You don't," he said again, clearly and slowly. "I just ask that you believe my story and that you trust me."

"Your _story_. See, even you call it a story, something you've made up to make us believe that-"

"Frodo -"

"I would prefer it if you didn't call me that." Frodo's lips were tight, tense, and he glared at the ranger.

"Master Baggins, then -"

"Underhill," Frodo almost hissed, his voice low and deceptively sweet. "My name is Underhill."

Strider growled, violently pushing himself out of his seat by the window, and began to pace, prowling like a huge cat before them, tail twitching. Sam had sprung up towards them at the sudden movement, but Frodo held up his hand without taking his eyes off the man, and Sam settled again, if somewhat uneasily.

"There is no need to keep up this farce in my presence, Mr _Baggins_," Strider said, the edge of a snarl in his voice. "I know who you are. I know what it is you carry."

"So does the enemy!" Frodo snapped back. "And who's to say you _aren't_ the enemy?"

"I _know_ because Gandalf told me."

"Indeed," said Frodo, his voice rising. "Then maybe it is because of you that he never arrived in the Shire in time for us to leave together, that he isn't here right now."

Strider laughed harshly. "Don't be a fool. Not even a man such as I could keep Gandalf the Grey from his path."

Frodo stiffened, chin lifting as he ran his eyes deliberately over the man's body before snorting almost inaudibly. "No," he said, turning away slightly and pursing his lips. "Perhaps not."

Strider growled again and gripped his sword hilt but, before he could speak, a sudden shriek rang out, piercing the night and striking terror into the hearts of all who heard. His sword was in his hand instantly, even as the hobbits on the bed started upright and Sam sprang to Frodo's side.

"Get down!" hissed the ranger. "And don't make a sound!"

The hobbits obeyed immediately, the two younger ones on the bed shrinking down and pressing themselves into the pillows. Sam gripped Frodo's arm and dragged him to kneel on the floor by his side. No one in the room breathed for long moments, the unearthly shrieks invading the silence icily, then the sound of pounding horse-hooves, growing quieter and quieter.

Strider let out a heavy breath, lowering the sword and glancing back down at Frodo. The hobbit's face was tense, beaded with sweat, and his hand was pressed to his chest, gripping over his heart - or something in his breast pocket.

"What are they?" Sam whispered in the panting silence that followed.

Strider warred within himself briefly - how much had Gandalf told them? If he had told them little, there would be a reason why, and he was loathe to go against the wisdom of the wizard. But hiding information about the enemy from the hobbits could only have a detrimental effect . . . He sighed. "They are the Nazgul. Ringwraiths. They were once men, until they were betrayed by their own greed. The Ring is their master now. They feel its call, at all times. They will never stop hunting it. Hunting you."

Strider looked back down at Frodo, but the hobbit's eyes were narrowed, his expression unreadable. Frodo lowered his hand from his breast slowly, as if forcing himself.

"Well, I'm sure you'll do a fantastic job of fighting them off with _that_," he said coolly, eyeing the Ranger's sword. The blade was broken off about a foot from the hilt.

Strider drew a sharp breath, his body tensing, then lifted his scabbard, tilting it a little so the other shards slid into his palm. He held them carefully - the blades were still sharp - at about waist height. Hobbit eye height. "These," he began in a low voice, "are the shards of Narsil. The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. It is an heirloom of my house."

There was a long silence in the room, and Frodo - his expression tense and unreadable - stared long at the glimmering shards and then up into the Ranger's stern face. He glanced at Sam briefly, a wordless exchange, then sighed.

"Very well then," he said finally. "I will allow you to accompany us." He sniffed slightly, then turned to the bed where Merry and Pippin had fallen into an exhausted sleep, clutching eachother tightly. "But only because we have no other choice."


	2. Chapter 2

They had been walking - trekking - for hours. The hobbits were feeling the ache of the road in their feet and knees (something not helped by their lack of sleep the previous night), which only added to the mood of uncheerfulness had clung to them since their not-so-subtle start in Bree.

The bickering had started as soon as they were out of earshot of the village.

"We should have left earlier," Frodo said.

"We would have, as was my plan, but for the time it took to find a pony," Strider responded with deliberate calm.

"We shouldn't have brought a pony. There was no need for it. We've been carrying our packs just fine so far, and we can carry them many leagues further without complaint." (Pippin humphed.) "We are not weaklings or children."

"I never said you were. Only, on the paths I will be taking you, carrying packs such as yours will only serve to slow us down."

"And I suppose cutting across country instead of going by the road is increasing our pace."

"You know it is too dangerous to travel on the road - they would be upon us in a heartbeat."

"I know, do I? Oh, I thought I was just a defenceless reclusive gentlehobbit that didn't know anything except how much cream he wanted in his tea."

Aragorn gritted his teeth hard - he didn't know Frodo had heard that comment he had muttered in exasperation earlier.

"I'm hungry," Pippin announced matter-of-factly, and Frodo glanced back around at him from his position close behind Strider at the front of the group and frowned, lips tight and brow drawn. He opened his mouth to speak, turning back to Strider, but suddenly jolted as his foot hit a tree root, sending him into a stumbling fall. His heart pounded too fast for a few beats before the throbbing sensation of stubbed toes rose up with the sensation of something gripping his upper arm tightly. He looked up, first in surprise, then anger, as he wrenched his arm away from the Ranger's firm grip, rising shakily from his knees and brushing off his clothes in an effort to regain control both of his trembling limbs and flushing face.

He finally took a deep breath and glanced up. The others had stopped and were watching him, Sam with a look of barely veiled concern, Merry with barely veiled amusement and Pippin with open sullenness. Strider's expression was unreadable, and he stared down at the hobbit as if awaiting his next move.

"I think it's time to stop," Frodo said.

Strider shook his head. "It's too early. We just ate lunch barely an hour ago, we should not stop again until nightfall."

"It's time to stop," Frodo repeated firmly. "We ate lunch on our feet, we need to rest else we won't make it to nightfall. And we need food to keep up our energy."

Strider looked over at the other hobbits, then back to Frodo. "It looks to me as if going without food a little longer would do you more good."

Frodo's eyes opened wide in disbelief at the Ranger's words, and he tightened his belt deliberately. "What an intriguing observation," he mused aloud. "Considering there is actually a good deal less of me. I hope the thinning process will not go on indefinitely, or I shall become a wraith."

"Do not speak of such things!" said Strider quickly, and with surprising earnestness.

Frodo raised an eyebrow, but it seemed half-hearted; the tightness at the corners of his eyes suggested he was troubled. At length he sighed, dropped his head and rolled his shoulders tentatively. "We will continue on for another hour," he said, turning back to the other hobbits. "Then when we find a suitable place to stop, we'll rest for a few minutes and have something to eat."

Pippin's mouth opened to speak in indignation but Merry elbowed him sharply and he closed it with a frown, rubbing his side. Frodo, once more facing forward, adjusted his pack briefly before continuing on, trooping past the still-motionless Strider without so much as a glance in his direction.

Shaking his head, the Ranger fell in behind, eyes scanning the surrounding landscape for any sign of unwelcome pursuit.

"Stay here and unload Bill. Keep the packs nearby though; we may have to leave in a hurry." Strider heaved his own pack from the pony's back, then drew the hood of his cloak over his head. "I'm going to scout the area and get some firewood. Whistle if you need me." He headed off in long strides towards the surrounding trees.

They were in a small clearing in a copse of dark, scaled trees, the resin-scent mingling on the back of the throat with the smell of rain. Needles underfoot formed a cross-hatch carpet on the ground, with the occasional dropped branch writhing up out of it like tormented skeletons. Strider had taken only a few steps into the dense crowd of the trees before he realised Frodo had followed him.

"I thought I told you to remain at the camp," the Ranger said, struggling to repress his exasperation as he stared down at the hobbit.

Frodo stared back defiantly. "You did. But I'm not about to wait there like a sitting duck for you to lead the enemy back to."

Strider grit his teeth. "Why can't you just trust me? I'm here to help you."

Frodo closed his eyes, and for a moment he seemed incredibly weary. His eyes opened again. "I can't afford to trust you," he said, his voice perhaps not as harsh as he intended.

"Even after all I've told you?" pressed the ranger, speaking softly. "You know I am a friend of Gandalf's."

Frodo's face closed again. "Gandalf never spoke to me of you," he said stiffly, walking further into the trees and stooping to grab a piece of firewood.

Strider followed him, automatically scanning the trees about him for any sign of danger. The thrumming of birds' wings punctuated the smooth, continuous creaking and rustling of the trees, and the occasional slight scrabbling could be heard from above as small foraging animals scrambled to safety.

"I'm sure there were many things Gandalf never spoke of to you. There is a lot more to him than you know. He is not merely an old man who performs magic tricks for drunken hobbits."

There was a loud _crack_ as Frodo added another faggot to the growing bundle in his arms.

"And even if he had spoken to me of you, which he didn't in the many days we spent discussing matters regarding my trip -" He continued as if the ranger had not spoken, emphasising these last words heavily. "How do I know you're who you say you are?"

"You know from the tokens I carry -"

"Hah!" Frodo barked, whipping around to face the ranger. "A broken sword?" he sneered. "This 'drunken hobbit' knows more than a little about the line of Elendil, but I'm afraid your rather inadequate -" his voice hissed in mocking sweetness "-- sword just doesn't _measure up_ to my expectations." Once again he let his eyes rove suggestively over Aragorn's body before turning his back and padding silently forward to reach for another branch of wood.

"You know less than you think, Mr _Underhill_," Strider growled, clenching his fists and striding up behind the stooping hobbit. "If you believe all those who look foul must be foul, and those fair must be fair."

"Oh on the contrary," Frodo said, continuing to walk on, half turning his body to let the ranger see the sneer on his face. "I'm sure there are many out there who are fair, and yet manage to feel as foul as you."

The bundle of firewood crunched dully as it fell to the dirty-gold carpet, exclamations of flight at the sudden noise could be heard in the sudden frantic fluttering of unseen wings in the trees around them.

"You are a fool, Frodo Baggins, if you believe that of me," Strider panted, stooping down and staring the hobbit straight in the face.

Frodo wrenched his sleeve from the ranger's grasp, then just as roughly grabbed the front of Strider's shirt and pulled him down, crushing his small mouth to the Ranger's, darting out his tongue to push in against the teeth, and bit, not gently, the man's upper lip - parted slightly from the lower with surprise. Just as quickly the hobbit pulled away again, or rather shoved the ranger back, laughing gutturally and wiping his sleeve across his mouth deliberately.

"Yes, I think you're right. I am a fool. For you do not _feel_ as I thought the enemy would, rather worse."

Strider lunged forward and once more grasped Frodo's arm before the hobbit could turn away again. Frodo's eyes were blazing, his breath hard and fast as he turned back to the Ranger. The man was kneeling, and their faces were mere inches apart.

"Would an enemy treat you like this?" Strider breathed, slipping a hand down to stroke at the bulge in Frodo's breeches.

Frodo hissed.

"Would a friend of Gandalf's treat me like this?" he returned in a snarl, his breath fast and hot against the Ranger's neck. Strider froze, then withdrew his hand. Frodo laughed softly and bit his neck, hard, before swiping his tongue over the tender spot and reaching down and giving the Ranger's member a rough squeeze. Then he abruptly turned away, walking stiff backed towards the camp site, gathering his armful of firewood on the way.

Strider stayed where he was for a moment, panting and dizzy and willing his arousal to subside and his face burned with . . . anger. That was it. He was just angry. Incorrigible hobbit.


	3. Chapter 3

Strider woke early as the first glimmering motes of dawn filtered through the trees, opened his eyes and rose immediately to rouse the hobbits. Frodo's eyes gleamed at him in the half-darkness from where the hobbit sat alert and wholly awake. His back rested against a dark fir-trunk, and his body remained completely immobile as his eyes followed the ranger's progress between the three slumbering bundles.

"I think we should start heading back south, towards the Road," Frodo finally said. The other hobbits were attempting, around cavernous yawns, to roll up their bedding. Strider was scattering the loose ashes of the previous night's small fire. He carefully replaced the plug of turf before replying.

"The Road will be watched. We must continue on our course east."

"That will lead us straight through the Marshes."

"That is my intention." The man met the hobbit's gaze levelly.

Frodo pushed himself up from the tree abruptly with an almost violent movement, but his voice remained calm. "Then you would lengthen our journey by several days."

"Would you rather a short life to a long journey?" The ranger's voice rose slightly in volume, falling dulling amongst the gnarled tree trunks.

Frodo's eyes involuntarily wandered to the three hobbits behind the man, Sam squatting with his pack between his knees, delving within it no doubt for food, Merry knuckling his eyes blearily as he stretched, Pippin at his feet, face mostly yawn as he sat on a half-rolled bed roll. Frodo met the ranger's eyes again.

"With you as a companion I'm not so sure that I won't get both," he sniffed, then brushed past the ranger and knelt by his cousin. "Come on, Pip," he said, his cheerfulness obviously forced. "Let's get these blankets rolled up and ready to go. We have a long day ahead of us."

"Midgewater!" cried Pippin. "There are more midges than water!"

"What do they live on when they can't get hobbit?" Sam said woefully from somewhere behind Frodo.

_Definitely not man_ Frodo thought as he stared ahead at the broad back of the man, lank, barely damp hair hanging down to tense shoulders. Strider moved fluidly, taking long, measured strides through the boggy terrain as if he had no need to watch his footing. The constant biting of the midges didn't seem to bother him at all, and his head swung from side to side as he scanned the landscape. His whole bearing was poised, and yes . . . graceful. Frodo grimaced and glanced back at the others - bedraggled and quite soaked, slogging almost waist-high through the mud and water.

Slapping the back of his neck in futile defence against the incessant biting, Frodo halted, allowing Merry and Pippin to pass (gazing at him balefully) before he fell in beside Sam, who was leading a quite undaunted Bill.

Sam gave him a wry smile. Frodo sighed.

"We ought to have taken the Road," the older hobbit stated half-heartedly.

"Perhaps, Mr Frodo, perhaps." Sam gave him a sidelong glance. "But something tells me there would be worse waiting for us on the Road than midges."

Frodo sighed again. "You're probably right Sam, it's just . . ." He glanced about him, his hand rubbing absently over his breast pocket, then turned back to his companion. "Gandalf might be looking for us on the Road." His voice was soft, earnest. "And I'm concerned that . . . with this Strider we might not even get to Rivendell at all."

Sam scratched his head, then scowled and shook it vigorously. A cloud of midges rose like a halo before immediately settling down again. "I'm not so sure . . . I don't think he's all as bad as you make out, sir, if you'll pardon my saying so. He . . . he . . . _looks_ foul, but feels more fair, if you follow me."

Frodo flushed suddenly, sneaking a glance at Sam from under lowered eyelashes. The other hobbit seemed not to have noticed the effect his particular choice of words had had on his master, and continued his in slow, steady speech. "Yes indeed, I think there's more to this Strider than meets the eye, and not just all that broken sword business - though bless me if I know why a man who seems to know the world and the wild as well as he does carries around such a useless thing." He chuckled slightly in disbelief, then looked up at Frodo again. Sam frowned at his master's anxious expression. "But he says he's a friend of Gandalf's. And if that's the case, then I'm sure the old wizard would be happy to find out that we're caught up with him."

"But what if that _isn't_ the case, Sam? What if he's one of _them_, one of the enemy, just leading us straight into a trap like lambs to the slaughter?"

"Why, Mr Frodo, I don't think that--"

"Sam." Frodo's voice was grim, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and pressing his palm hard to his breast pocket. "We can't afford to have any doubt. We can't _afford_ to trust him. So much is at stake, Sam, so much . . ."

Sam paused briefly to rest a hand on Frodo's shoulder. Frodo started, as if out of a dream, and gazed down at Sam with an expression of surprise overlaying desperation. "If he wanted It," Sam said in a low voice, staring straight into Frodo's eyes, "I'm sure he could have taken It by now - broken sword or no." He gave Frodo's shoulder a brief squeeze, but he was already turning back to the path ahead, so he didn't see Frodo's hand clench convulsively in its resting spot on his chest.

"Stubborn hobbit," the ranger growled under his breath.

"Arrogant _man_," Frodo sneered outright.

Strider drew a breath again, ready to retort, but -

"Right, well I don't know about the rest of you, but I think we're ready for a break right about now." It was Sam, hands on hips, staring up at them. Merry and Pippin gazed at them over his shoulders dully. "If I'm not mistaken, it looks like there are some trees up ahead which will shelter us enough from the wind, and any enemy eyes that may be lookin' for us."

Frodo and Strider glared at each other one more time before following Sam as he walked along (though a somewhat prudent distance from) the bank of the small stream. The sound of Bill's (led behind them by Merry and Pippin), heavy hooves half-splashing in the shallow water and clacking against the river stones, somewhat covering the sound of muttering under their breaths.

They had left the Marshes a day ago - with no complaints from either Frodo or any of the other hobbits - although that was the only matter that *hadn't* earned any complaint. Civilised conversation had been worn threadbare by a full day's march after a sleepless night of cold, damp, and constant _neek-breek_ing.

The sun had started to set by the time they came to a small family of stunted alder trees by the shores of the stream.

"We will travel no further today," Strider announced, his gaze scanning all around them and even up to where the sky seemed cracked by the jagged branches. He looked back down again. "Unless Mr Underhill has any objections?"

Frodo clenched his teeth against the retort that rose in his throat, feeling the weariness that pulsed through his own limbs as well as observing somewhat painfully the drawn features of his fellow-hobbits. _Well, at least I won't give him the satisfaction of a verbal response_ he thought resignedly, moving to Bill's side and beginning to untie a rope with numb fingers. He saw the flash of Strider's satisfied smile out of the corner of his eye and tugged on the rope harshly. "Confound these knots!"

"Here, Mr Frodo, let me," Sam said soothingly, taking over and loosening the knot with ease. "You just sit over there and let me bring you something to eat. Let your Sam take care of this for you."

Merry and Pippin were already coaxing a small flame out of the slightly damp wood that lay about sparsely in the copse. Feeling inexplicably near tears, Frodo sank down opposite them and pressed his fists into his eyes. When he looked up again, the colours of the world seemed to have been inverted for a moment, and so the bleak, treeless backs of the hills loomed like solid white light ahead of them. The image flickered and he blinked.

The orange glow of their meagre fire seemed very small against that mass of darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

"Where are we?" Sam asked Strider as he knelt beside Frodo, handing him a chunk of bread and hard cheese and some . . . vegetables? Where in Middle-Earth did they get vegetables?

Merry chuckled as he brought a similar fare for Pippin and himself back to their spot by the fire. "Guess these came in handy after all, Pip. Wonder what ol' Maggot would think if he knew who was eating his prize crop now - and where!"

Pippin looked slightly indignant, but his eyebrow quirked in amusement. "Why I'm sure he'd have no complaints, Merry! His bark's far more ferocious than his bite, and I doubt he'd stand to seeing young energetic hobbits like us go hungry!"

Strider shook his head briefly, then turned back to Sam. He gestured toward the stark mountain range. "Those are the Weather Hills," he said. "And that one there you see - it is the tallest, and set a little apart with a conical top - is Weathertop. I had hoped to come to it by noon today, but I overestimated our pace." He risked a glance at Frodo. The hobbit was tight-lipped.

"Why there? I thought we were going to Rivendell," Sam asked.

"We are. But I think that . . ." he stopped suddenly, then changed course as if he had begun to tell them something he oughtn't. Frodo's eyes narrowed. "It was once a great watchtower. I hope to look out from there, and examine the lay of the land more closely before we continue."

"Or provide a beacon to lead the enemy straight to us," Frodo muttered. Strider glanced at him.

"I could," the ranger continued in a calm voice. "If I so felt the desire to, which I don't." He hesitated again. "I also believe there is a possibility we might find Gandalf there. Though the hope is faint."

Frodo frowned, opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it and scowling down at the food in his lap. Strider sat on the opposite side of the fire, staring unconsciously at the hobbit, a habit he had gotten into through awaiting Frodo's next move.

The hobbit was still for long moments, head still bowed, then slowly, leisurely he began nibbling at his food, tearing morsels off the stale rind of bread with his teeth, crumbling some of the cheese and almost kissing it out of his palm. He licked his lips slowly before biting into the carrot, his lips wrapping around it almost obscenely. Strider drew a shaky breath, licking his own lips before starting when he realised Frodo was watching him, eyes burning out of deep pits of shadow cast by the flickering of the small fire. Frodo drew his tongue along the length of the carrot, slowly and deliberately, and Strider started up from where he was sitting.

"I'm just going to . . . polish my sword," he said shakily, then flushed when he realised what his mind, fumbling for an excuse, had come up with. None of the other hobbits seemed to have noticed - Merry and Pippin curled together and talking softly a little distance from the fire, Sam crouched closer to it, his attention focused on stirring the billy-can of tea. When the ranger glanced at Frodo again, the dark-haired hobbit seemed to have lost interest, instead watching his cousins as he gnawed on the carrot absently.

Strider stumbled away towards where Bill was tethered, resting his head briefly on the pony's neck and breathing deeply before dropping down to sort through the pile of packs on the ground. He spent a lot more time there than was necessary to find the soft, slightly oily cloth in his pack, and when he settled back by the fire and drew the hilt and jagged shards of Narsil onto his lap, Frodo had wrapped himself in his bedroll, facing away, only a mop of dark, grass-threaded hair visible.

"Would you like some tea, Strider?" The ranger started, the edge of a shard slicing into his hand as he gripped it reflexively. Sam looked down at him curiously.

The ranger forced his grimace into a smile. "Thank you, Sam," he said, taking the proffered mug with the hand that was not bleeding, sucking on the shallow cut in the other. "I think we should keep watch tonight. I have an ill feeling about this place." He frowned slightly, looking up at the jagged crown of Weathertop as he sipped at the bitter brew.

"Very well then," said Sam, glancing over to where Merry and Pippin lay, close together even in slumber. His gaze turned to Frodo, and softened. "I'll take the first watch, then rouse Master Merry for his."

"Thank you, Sam," the man smiled. "Make sure Frodo's watch is last, though." His voice softened slightly. "He is probably the weariest of us all, with the burden he carries."

Sam nodded firmly. "That he is, though he'd never let on," the hobbit said, his voice warring between pride and concern.

"No," the ranger answered somewhat distantly, watching the small hand twitch a little where it rested close to Frodo's face, the hint of a frown tensing it even in sleep. "I suppose he wouldn't."

Sam sighed and sank to the ground beside the man, drawing his knees up and resting his chin on them. He glanced at the shards in the man's lap where they reflected the waxing moon in their angular planes, before looking back into the fire.

"He ain't always this . . . disagreeable, you know," he said softly. "It's just . . . well . . . he's afraid. He _doesn't_ know whether to trust you or not. And he's awful worried about Gandalf."

"I know," answered Strider, smiling slightly. "To tell you the truth, Master Samwise, I am not entirely confident regarding the wizard either." His expression grew distant, a frown brushed his forehead. "I am troubled, for the first time since I have known him. We should have had messages, even if he could not have come himself. The tidings had gone far and wide that Gandalf was missing and the horsemen had been seen."

"So you knew that Gandalf was missing before you met us?" Sam asked in surprise.

Strider glanced at him again, one corner of his mouth rising slightly. "Yes. It was the Elven folk of Gildor who told me this; and later they told me that you had left your home; but there was no news of your leaving Buckland. I had been watching the East Road anxiously."

"Gildor . . ." Sam spoke with something akin to awe, rolling the name around with his tongue. He looked suddenly up at the man, expression daring, hopeful as he stared up into Strider's face. "Then you _are_ who you say you are!"

"Why of course!" Strider laughed. "Who else would I be?"

"I don't know . . ." Sam mused, rubbing his nose thoughtfully and turning his gaze back to Frodo. "The Enemy, I suppose, like Mr Frodo thinks you are." He looked back up at the man. "Or at least tries to think you are. But I don't think you _can_ be the enemy, Mr Strider sir, seeing as you know Gildor and the elves and all."

"So it was the elves that convinced you," said the ranger thoughtfully. "But I must admit," he added with a queer laugh, "that I hoped you would take to me for my own sake. A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship. But there, I believe my looks are against me."

Sam chuckled. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps."


	5. Chapter 5

They had set out again soon after sunrise at a steady pace and Frodo soon found that it was best to ignore the crispness of the frosty air around him and the pale, clear blue of the sky above. Better instead to focus all his attention on the ground immediately before him, head down and thumbs hooked into the straps chafing (light as the pack was) on his shoulders, and concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other.

The other hobbits seemed to feel more refreshed, as if they had had a night of unbroken sleep. Sam was whistling softly to himself, and Frodo could hear the occasional snatch of garden-lore spoken conversationally to Bill. Merry and Pippin walked up ahead, closer to the brooding ranger, marvelling with each other at how long they had survived on such short commons. They asked the man a few questions, as if attempting to draw him into their conversation, but his answers - low and rough in comparison to their clear, piping voices - were short and invited no discussion. The two cousins didn't seem very put off by the ranger's manner, although Frodo was.

At the back of the group he gazed, head down, on the rush of browns and greens and greys that went by underfoot, but his mind was flitting between boiling anger, burning self-consciousness, and underlying all - an icy fear.

He was tired, he was frightened, he was confused and unsure. He had lain awake for most of the night, and Pippin's soft shaking had woken him quickly out of what little, shallow sleep he had fallen into. His watch was just before dawn, and he had sat, stiff-backed, with a blanket wrapped tightly around him and had watched the first rays of the sun halo Weathertop's broken crown. He had kept his back to the man - who had been awake all night, it seemed - where he sat in unearthly stillness and silence, leaning his back against a twisted alder-trunk. Frodo hadn't turned around, though the prickle between his shoulder blades grew almost to pain with the urge to do so.

He hadn't exchanged words with the ranger all morning, hadn't interacted at all since the night before.

Frodo was confused and unsure. Unsure of even his own actions. He berated himself again for his behaviour. He had only wished to keep himself alert, aware - ready to catch this man off-guard if he really was an enemy, ready to defend himself and his companions from sudden attack. Then he had wished revenge, pay-back, an evening of the scores and perhaps . . . perhaps even to come out on top. _He_ was the leader of this group, _he_ was the one who ought to make decisions. Not a child to be overruled, a child to have his hair ruffled at a petty concern and then walked all over.

That's what the kiss had been for, to show him that. And of course the man had fought back in kind, what else could Frodo have expected? But the hobbit had come out on top of that, _he_ had won that round and the ranger was obviously unbalanced by it.

And that smile, oh that smile had grated on Frodo's nerves when all he had wanted to do was to stop and to rest and to know his companions were safe, and he had wanted revenge for that smile, and he had wanted surety in knowing that he had put the man back in his place and that he could sleep now. And he had known the man was watching him, and it was so simple, so easy to use his mouth just _that_ way, and to hear the catch in the man's breathing and be satisfied at it. More than satisfied by it. Was it revenge any more? What had it turned into? What was he trying to _do_?

Scare him away? Incite him to attack? Seduce him?

"Beg your pardon, sir?"

Frodo started, snapping out of his reverie as Sam laid a hand on his shoulder.

"What?" he said in confusion.

"Didn't you just say something, Mr Frodo?"

Frodo flushed at the thought of something his befuddled mind could have accidentally let slip. "N-No, I didn't Sam."

"Oh." Sam looked puzzled for a moment, then raised an eyebrow, mouth quirking slightly as he looked at Frodo's heated face. Shaking his head, he walked on again. Frodo followed, watching the tuft of sandy curls sticking out above the pack and the occasionally calloused hand that reached out to caress the pony's nose or perhaps offer a handful of grass before he lowered his head to stare at the ground once more.

Frodo was frightened. Fear underlay his every thought, insinuated icy tendrils into his limbs, stoked nausea in his stomach. He was afraid; afraid that he would make a mistake, a miscalculation that would cost him his own life, and more importantly, the lives of the three who travelled with him. He was afraid that he would make the wrong decision and fail in the task that Gandalf had set him.

To the ruin of all.

And Strider hadn't spoken to him all morning. Had hardly even spared a look in his direction, except perhaps in one of those sweeping glances that he occasionally cast back to see if all four of them were still following.

Had he gone too far? Frodo brought a hand to his mouth to chew fiercely at a ragged fingernail. Even he knew - sheltered upbringing or no - that it was dangerous to taunt a wild animal. Dangerous to corner it and leave it only the option to lash out.

Something Merry said ahead of him caught his attention, and he raised his head. "I am not sure that I like it: it has a - well, rather barrow-wightish look. Is there any barrow on Weathertop?"

Frodo frowned, not wanting to recall the fear and horror of that icy grave, but his surprise at hearing Strider actually respond to the question forced him to listen.

" . . . The Men of the West did not live here; though in their latter days they defended the hills for a while against the evil that came out of Angmar." Frodo shivered at that name, and whispered it to himself; it was thick and bitter in his mouth. _Angmar_. He glanced up further ahead of the tall man, and was surprised to see the hill rise up so close before them, stone thrust up like jagged teeth out of the summit, at harsh angles to the drizzled, horizontal lines of the clouds.

" . . . They built a great watch-tower on Weathertop," Strider was saying. "Amon Sûl they called it. It was burned and broken, and nothing remains now but a tumbled ring, like a rough crown on the old hill's head. Yet once it was tall and fair. It is told that Elendil stood there watching for the coming of Gil-galad out of the West, in the days of the Last Alliance."

"Who was Gil-galad?" Merry asked in awe. Frodo glanced at the other hobbits, realising by their enraptured expressions that they were just as amazed at the grubby ranger's words as he was. Frodo shook his head and refocussed on Bill's swaying rump ahead of him. The enemy could just as easily have knowledge of old lore; it was not as if the history the man spoke of was secret to all but those who were trustworthy.

Just ahead of Frodo, Sam began to chant in a low voice words from Frodo's childhood, bringing with them both images of brilliance and light and memories of warmth, memories of sitting by the fire - the heat of it at his back and the stickiness of honey cakes on his fingers - as Bilbo patiently recited the poem of sadness and grace to the two boys sitting before him, repeating the words reverently.

"I learned it from Mr Bilbo when I was a lad," Sam stammered, echoing Frodo's thoughts. "He was mighty book-learned, was dear old Bilbo. And he wrote _poetry_. He wrote what I just said."

"He did not make it up," said Strider, and Frodo bristled. "It is part of the lay that is called _The Fall of Gil-galad_, which is in an ancient tongue." The ranger paused for a moment, then continued more softly, "Bilbo must have translated it. I never knew that."

The tone of the man's voice made something in Frodo surge up, and his heart constricted as he gazed at the back of the man's bowed head. Frodo swallowed. Bilbo. He wanted to see Bilbo.

He wanted to go home.


	6. Chapter 6

It was past midday by the time Strider halted. At a nod from him, the hobbits, as one, sank down to the damp grass with a sigh. They were on the western flank of Weathertop in a sheltered hollow; below them they could see a bowl-shaped dell with grassy sides.

Frodo shrugged out of his pack and sat up. Strider glanced at him fleetingly, his eyes skimming over the hobbit's face before returning to gaze out over the landscape and further up the slope they had been following.

"I am going to continue on to the summit; Gandalf may have left a sign," the man announced. "The rest of you ought to remain here with the packs and pony." He removed his own pack, dropping it near Bill. Frodo struggled to his feet and came to stand beside him, chin set.

Strider sighed inwardly. "The path to the summit is very . . . taxing," he said.

"I am not an invalid," Frodo said calmly in reply. "Besides, I would not have you standing atop 'the great watchtower' as a beacon to call our enemies to us." He remained facing forward, refusing to look up at the ranger.

"Very well then." The man knew from experience that it was no use arguing. Besides, the silence of the hobbit throughout the day - so different from the constant abrasiveness - had disturbed him a little, so he strode ahead, the quiet footfalls on the edge of his hearing letting him know that the hobbit was following.

Frodo was panting heavily by the time they reached the summit, half an hour later. The last slope had been steep and rocky, and he had refused to ask the ranger for assistance, instead biting back gasps of alarm and surprise as rocks slid out from under his feet or angular hand-holds - grasped suddenly to keep him from falling - cut into his palms.

Frodo looked up. He had heaved himself up through a gap in the wide ring of ancient stonework that crowned the summit, crumbled and covered with age-long grass. Strider was walking (barely out of breath) towards a pile of broken stones in the centre; a cairn, Frodo could see as he got closer, blackened with soot. He felt the crackle of grass beneath his bare feet, and grimaced when he looked down - the turf was burnt to the roots. Looking around, he could see that all within the stone ring was scorched and shrivelled. There was no sign of any living thing besides them, and the air seemed to buzz with energy; Frodo could smell it, and he licked his lips nervously.

"This place feels evil," Frodo said, needing to break that oppressive silence that was only broken by the distant moaning whisper of the wind. "Why did you bring us here?"

Strider didn't answer, instead stooping a little to examine something on top of the cairn for a moment, then reaching out a hand to pick it up. Frodo increased his pace, arriving beside the ranger as the man held the object up to his face, examining intently whatever was hidden in his hand.

"What is that?" Frodo demanded. Strider remained silent, seemingly ignoring the hobbit. "I insist you show it to me at once!"

The ranger glanced down at him, eyes narrowing briefly, then returned to his scrutiny of the object in his hand.

Frodo resisted the urge to stamp his foot. He was exhausted, he was afraid . . . and what was the man holding? Was it some sign left by Gandalf? Or the enemy?

Suddenly exasperated with everything - his anxiety, the man's silence, his own size, which seemed so ineffectual against this wild-hardened man - Frodo grasped the man's sleeve and pulled it violently. "Show me!"

Strider grunted with surprise, and something small and white flew out of his hand at the sudden movement, landing several feet away from where they stood.

Frodo barely paused before he ran to where the thing had landed, white and gleaming like a promise in the blackness of the burnt grass. He stooped to retrieve it, but cried out in surprise something heavy hit his side and slammed him into the ground, pinning him on his back. The world spun and flickered for an instant as the back of his head connected with something hard; he struggled sluggishly then froze in panic when he realised what had happened.

Strider's face was above him, teeth bared in anger, brows black and stormy over glittering grey eyes. His hands pinned Frodo's shoulders to the earth, his knees on either side of Frodo's waist; he was crouched like an animal over the hobbit. Frodo's breathing rose again to a fearful pant that he struggled to repress, his jaw clenched and eyes wide. Both his arms and legs had splayed wide in upon impact with the ground, and he dared not move except for fisting his hand more tightly around the small white stone.

_Not now, not like this_. His heart beat in frantic rhythm with his silent begging - for what, he knew not himself, staring up fearfully into the other's eyes. The ranger and hobbit were both frozen for an instant, the only movement on the hilltop the persistent searching of the wind that whipped clothes and hair into their faces.

Frodo's initial fear began to ebb, and then evolve into outrage and anger, his torn fingernails biting into the heel of his palm. Strider's hands clenched briefly in the fabric of Frodo's jacket, and his snarl etched deeper for an instant before he thrust himself away violently. The man turned away with an expression of disgust - at his own actions or those of the hobbit's, Frodo could not tell. Before he could rise to his feet Frodo had pushed up and launched himself against the man. Both surprise and the full weight of his body - small as it was - knocked the man to the ground, the impact forcing the air out of both of their lungs.

Breathing quickly, Frodo quickly flung his leg over the man's abdomen, straddling his waist and feeling the shifting of hard muscle beneath him. Taking advantage of the fact that Strider's hands had risen automatically in defence, Frodo grasped the man's wrists (one only with finger and thumb as he still sweatily grasped the stone) and forced them down to the ground until they were pressed, wing-like, by his shoulders. And yet even as Frodo leaned down, the man pushed his head upward and crushed his mouth to Frodo's. Their teeth clashed, bruising their lips, and Frodo pulled back slightly in surprise. His grip on the man's wrists loosened enough for Strider to pull his hands free to clasp the back of Frodo's head and draw the hobbit closer, an action perhaps unnecessary as Frodo pushed down of his own accord.

Strider moaned, and Frodo could feel the vibration of it where he was pressed against the man's torso, and through his teeth and up into his skull. His lips parted on a gasp, allowing Strider's tongue to lick out even as his own darted in to taste pipeweed and river-water. His fists opened and the small white stone dropped to the ground, forgotten. His hands pressed palm-flat to the charred ground on either side of the man's straining shoulders.

"Frodo," Strider whispered breathlessly, his head falling back to the earth. Frodo groaned in response. Not willing to let the man go that easily; he leaned down further to capture Strider's mouth again. He licked and bit at the lips until they opened for him, then kissed them only lightly until the man groaned in frustration and pressed Frodo's head down to him. The man's hands slipped down from Frodo's head to cradle briefly the back of his neck, then further to rest lower on his back. Frodo offered no resistance as Strider rolled them over again, lowering his body over Frodo's, pinning the hobbit once more with his weight.

Frodo squirmed and raised his hands to grip at the fabric of the man's sleeves as Strider's mouth slipped from his and slid wetly along his jaw, closing again on the hobbit's neck. Frodo arched his head back, gritting his teeth as the scrape of the man's beard on his sensitive skin sent shivers of hot and cold through his body.

"Wha-what is that stone?" he gasped in a tone that struggled to be conversational, squeezing his eyes closed and striving to maintain his grasp on reality.

Strider drew back a little, the air kissing coldly at the wetness on Frodo's neck and making him shiver. The man dove down again, licking the spot once; Frodo grunted and thrust up involuntarily and Strider sucked hard.

"I believe it might be a message left by Gandalf," the ranger said breathlessly during a brief pause in which he shifted his ministrations to the other side of Frodo's neck.

"Gandalf!" Frodo gasped (with a perhaps a little too much enthusiasm) as Strider's teeth found his ear lobe and bit down. "But how do you know? How do I know that - _  
oh_  
\- that . . . that it isn't a message for you left . . . b-by the . . ." He groaned, swallowed fitfully, then struggled to continue. "The . . . the . . . enemy?"

"You can look at it yourself, if you like," Strider murmured, withdrawing one of his hands from the back of Frodo's neck and sliding it between their bodies, impatiently tugging open the buttons at Frodo's collar. He explored the newly exposed skin with his mouth. "Though I don't know what you will make of the runes . . . They may appear to be merely scratches to you." He slid the hand down further.

Frodo shuddered, pressing up into the man's touch, his legs automatically falling apart. He tossed his head and struggled briefly, indignantly. "I'll have you know I am quite well learned. I -" He gasped, eyes opening wide, then fluttering shut again. "No doubt I can read them as well as you can."

"No doubt," Strider responded absently, moving both hands to work at the fastenings of the hobbit's clothing as he reared up to kneel between Frodo's thighs.

"No doubt?" Frodo gasped, eyes flying open in surprise at the sudden loss of the man's weight on him. "What do you mean 'no doubt?! I -"

"_Shhh!_" Strider suddenly hissed, halting all movement and clamping a hand over Frodo's mouth. It tasted of salt and heat. The ranger knelt frozen for an instant, eyes staring out past the jagged teeth of the stonework and onto the lands falling away from Weathertop. Suddenly he dropped down, crouching tensely over the hobbit's prone body.

"What is it?" Frodo whispered, all heat in his voice replaced by cold fear.

Strider's gaze flitted about them for a moment, as if searching the hilltop for something. A low shriek, echoed discordantly by others like the calls of wounded animals, reached their ears, carried coldly by the whipping wind. Strider looked down, meeting Frodo's wide eyes.

"The enemy is here," he said in a low voice. "We have to get back to the others."

Strider raised himself again cautiously and held out a hand to Frodo, but the hobbit ignored the offer, glancing at the man suspiciously before pushing himself up without aid. He stooped slightly to pick up the white stone before he ran stealthily toward the break in the stonework they had entered through.

Strider watched the slight figure - back dusted blackly with the charred grass - and shook his head. He glanced once more around the summit, which was rapidly darkening with the sinking sun, then followed.


	7. Chapter 7

"Keep close to the fire, with your faces outward!"

There was a stillness, a hush, that seemed to drag on for long moments as if time were frozen. The sound of his pounding heart, somehow impossibly slow, filled Strider's ears, and he could hear the short, sharp breathing of the hobbits before him. He lifted the stick in his hand up before his face in tense readiness.

Then, everything seemed to happen at once. A shadow rose over the lip of the dell, more than one, and advanced towards their small fire like holes in the darkness. Two of the hobbits - Merry and Pippin - threw themselves to the ground.

Frodo disappeared.

The shadows rushed forward with a shriek and Strider thrust the stick into the fire for an instant before leaping forward. The firebrand he held was echoed by a flicker of red from where he had last seen Frodo standing, glimpsed for an instant out of the corner of his eye, and the sound of ringing steel as a sword was drawn. Another cry rang out in crackling contrast, like lightning in the night sky; _O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!_, and the man felt his heart leap within his chest in response. He threw himself at the knot of shadows, their shrill shriek rending the night air, and scattered them from where they were clustered before the fire. They separated, disappeared into the night as they reached the darkness pressing in around the circle of light cast by the small fire.

"Strider!"

He whipped around, the adrenaline still bearing him up and sharpening his senses, and was at Sam's side in an instant as the sandy-haired hobbit turned over Frodo's still form with trembling hands. Sam gasped, lifting his hand - it was red and glistening with blood in the firelight.

"He's cold!" Sam cried. Strider clenched his teeth, heart beating painfully fast in his chest. Frodo's face was pale, almost blue despite the warm glow of the fire, and his eyes were closed tight. A sword dragged a little then fell out of his limp grasp; the right hand remained clenched in a tight fist. Struggling to keep his movements steady, the ranger reached down and laid a hand on Frodo's forehead. It was smooth and cold, like marble, and he slid the hand down to Frodo's neck with something akin to dread. A frantic fluttering under his fingertips - faint, it was so faint, but undeniably _there_ \- made Strider release a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and he pushed himself up to his feet.

"Pick him up, lay him near the fire," he commanded in a tight voice, looking down at Sam's tear-streaked face and then glancing to Merry and Pippin - who had edged closer and were staring up at him in dismay, still clinging to one another - to ensure they were unharmed.

The iciness that had gripped the ranger at the sight of Frodo's lifeless face began to melt, and the heat that replaced it drove him out of the small dell at a run, unaware of the snarl on his lips. He hardly noticed the darkness with the blind rage that clouded his vision, and he was some distance from the campsite before he stopped, leaning against a gnarled tree trunk, pressing himself into it until it hurt. He focused on the pain, closing his eyes for a moment and forcing his breathing to calm.

He could not feel the presence of the wraiths anywhere near and, even in his blind rush of pursuit, his senses - searching and examining automatically - had seen no sign of them. They had gone, vanished into the darkness.

_But why?_ the man agonised. _When they were so close, and we so vulnerable?_ The answer whispered coldly in his mind, hissing up out of the depths: _Because they no longer need to attack. They have achieved their goal._

He ran then, back to the campsite, his heartbeat seeming to slow, to retreat into cold, steely understanding.


	8. Chapter 8

Almost a week had passed. Frodo could no longer walk, let alone stand, and even the gentle swaying of Bill's back seemed too much for him to bear. He no longer hid his pain from the others, but seemed to sink into a dark dream, slumped in the saddle, left arm cradled over his belly and tucked into his cloak as they hurried onward. As they stopped for the night - unable to continue even if they wished, for the younger hobbits were exhausted by the pace - he seemed to come back to himself a little, as if waking in fear, his eyes wide and breath quickening as Strider lifted him carefully from the saddle to lay him down and tend to the wound.

"You were right," Frodo panted, eyes wide with pain, staring up into the steely sky. "I am a fool. And now -" he gasped and gritted his teeth as the man gently peeled the bandages back from the wound. "I have betrayed you all," he whispered, lukewarm tears and cold sweat licking into already-damp curls via creases of pain in the corners of his eyes.

"Hush, it was not your fault," Strider soothed, bathing the ugly wound gently with the athelas-water. "You held out as long as you could. No one could have asked any more of you."

The hobbit closed his eyes, shaking his head fervently and taking great gasping breaths. "No. I - I should have . . . should have trusted you . . . from the first . . ."

"Don't be ridiculous," the man said, not unkindly. "You acted wisely." He paused at that, and chuckled briefly, gently wrapping a fresh cloth around Frodo's shoulder. Tying it off, he settled back on his heels and reached out a hand to smooth tendrils of hair - coal black with dampness - off the pale forehead. "I would not have as much respect for you as I do if you had accepted my offer immediately, without explanation." He pondered for a moment, hand absently combing through dark curls of hair. Frodo took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. "Or even with explanation."

The ranger stared down at the hobbit, watching the sweat bead on the small forehead. The lashes fluttered in pain on the cheeks, his tiny frame shaking fitfully. It was too cold here. Too cold and too damp and too far away from Rivendell. And Frodo had never looked so small to him. Even from that first glimpse Strider had had of a diminutive, dark-haired figure amongst the huge, ungraceful 'Big Folk' of Bree, Frodo had seemed natural in his environment - it was the men around him who were too huge, too unwieldy for the world around them.

Strider hesitated a moment before leaning down closer to Frodo's face, intending to brush his lips across the tense forehead in a gesture of comfort, but Frodo breathed in sharply and turned his face away.

Swallowing hard, the man straightened and withdrew his hand from where it rested in Frodo's hair. _That's the way it is then,_ he thought. _Before it was merely . . . _ He frowned slightly and looked down at the hobbit again, at the brow tight with pain, eyes half lidded and staring into the night, right fist clenched tightly by his side. _What _had _it been?_

_No._ Something in the ranger broke, fell and buried itself painfully in his belly. What if the hobbit's actions before had merely been an attempt to distract the 'enemy', to stop him from taking the Ring by giving him . . .

_Oh Frodo._

Strider set his jaw and straightened his shoulders. He had been blind. _He_ had been the fool, treating these hobbits, _this_ hobbit, with less regard than they deserved, than they _needed_. Images of the Shire flickered through the man's mind; peaceful and green, warm with the sun's caress and the laughter of well-fed hobbits, a sharp contrast to the cold greyness of his own life on the road, in the wild, the life he had forced these four to adopt. A sharper contrast indeed to the roads Frodo no doubt would be forced to follow in the future. _And I had . . ._

His heart clenched. _I am a fool. How can I expect to fulfil my destiny when I can only look below the surface of the land?_

He shook his head. Regret wouldn't solve anything. "If by my life or death . . ." the ranger whispered to himself, then rose suddenly and turned to the fire, reaching into the pouch on his belt for more of the athelas leaves.

"Aragorn . . ." It was scarcely a whisper, yet Aragorn felt something flutter and grab hold below his ribcage at that voice speaking that name. He immediately turned back, kneeling again by Frodo's side.

"What is it, Frodo?"

The eyes fluttered open sluggishly and Frodo reached out his right hand, grasping at the air. Aragorn caught it, clasped it between both of his. It was icy cold.

"Don't . . . Don't go," the hobbit breathed. "I . . . I don't want to be left alone . . . here . . ."

"Shh," murmured the ranger softly, glancing back briefly to gauge the distance they were from the fire - not very far but not close enough. He reached out, then paused, remembering Frodo's previous rejection. Gazing into the hobbit's eyes, he searched for a glimpse of the fear and uncertainty - cursing himself that he had never thought to look for it before - but found only . . . need. Gently, he slipped his arms under the hobbit's shoulders and knees, gathering the small body up to him and feeling the gasp of pain like a stab in his throat. "I'm not going anywhere. Come now, let's get you a bit warmer."

Shuffling over to the fire, Aragorn carefully lowered himself to the ground and settled Frodo into his lap, wrapping the blankets tighter around the shivering body before curling his arms around the hobbit and holding him firmly.

"Am I going to die?"

His arms tightened convulsively around the small body. "If you did," Strider said at length, struggling to keep his voice nonchalant, "I wouldn't have anyone to engage in such delightful conversation with, would I?" It sounded strained even to him, and he cursed his choice of words, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to the soft curls.

Frodo laughed, or perhaps it was a sob, and pressed his face into the ranger's chest. "Thank you," he whispered, "for not lying."


	9. Chapter 9

Frodo's world seemed to have shrunk, collapsed in on itself. Most of his energy was now spent fighting off the shadows that threatened to swamp him, spent trying to convince himself that they weren't real, but that the sight of four bent, weary backs and the feel of the saddle swaying beneath him was. Which wasn't entirely successful as he was too cold, too _numb_ to really feel anything any more.

The glint of green - so bright in the greyness that now surrounded him - in Strider's hands had helped, the elfstone capturing his gaze and forcing the shadows to the periphery as the man's thumb smoothed the mud off its clear surface. But Strider's words - heard as Frodo had lain on the ground shivering, forced to the edge by an unavoidable hike up a rocky bank - hadn't helped.

"Frodo has been touched by the weapons of the Enemy, and there is some poison or evil at work that is beyond my skill to drive out."

Strider _wasn't_ the Enemy, he knew that now, and that somehow made his words more bittersweet. Frodo knew now that he _would_ try and drive the poison out of him, if he could, if it were within his skills or means. _And that,_ Frodo thought, his head sinking lower to his chest as they plodded on in silence, _is how it has been all along._

The darkness seemed to loom in a little closer, and Frodo raised his head and blinked. A shoulder of hills had cut off the light of a rapidly-sinking sun, and a cold wind stirred the cloak tucked about him. He shivered. Since Weathertop, the same thoughts - the same self-reproach - had been turned over and over in his mind, in the long, aching hours of travel and sleepless nights. And now, the sound of Strider's voice -

"We will stop soon. Keep your eye out for a place off the Road where we can camp."

\- brought them back again. _From the first. From the first I ought to have trusted him, and from the first he was devoted to us._ Frodo frowned. _To **me**, he was devoted to me, even though I treated him with disrespect, even though I acted like a fool. That night in the dell - let alone my little stunt in Bree . . . Gandalf would be ashamed of me._

Frodo gazed at the man ahead. Graceful as a cat he was, as he strode along the Road, his head turning to and fro as he scanned their surroundings. He glanced back as if sensing Frodo's gaze, then frowned a little and turned back to the Road. Frodo flushed and cast his eyes down. _Even though I treated him with less than respect he . . . put up with me, never ceased his care and guidance, indulging my little **games** . . ._ His chest went tight at that, at the memory of the heat and roughness of Strider's mouth on his neck, and at his new understanding.

He had turned away, at that first realisation, the understanding of his own foolishness, brought on by the look in Strider's eyes as he had tended Frodo's wound. _And how could I let him indulge me any more? I was a fool, oh I was a fool . . ._ But comfort. He could not refuse the comfort Strider offered; he _needed_ the comfort Strider offered because it got so much colder and darker and _painful_ when the man wasn't near.

Bilbo always said elves offered some form of comfort or healing merely by their presence. And Strider, on reflection, seemed to have an awful lot to do with the elves. The lore he knew, for one thing, but, more significantly, the soft songs Frodo heard - or felt rather, in the warmth of breath on his scalp - murmured softly in the night when the man thought he was asleep.

_Oh, I was a fool . . ._

The sound of hooves brought Frodo up sharp, and he looked around wildly, then closed his eyes and gripped fast to the saddle horn as the world spun sickeningly. Sam moved closer, gripping the reins tighter and resting a hand comfortingly on Frodo's knee. But . . .

"That does not sound like a Black Rider's horse!" said Frodo, tilting his head slightly to listen more intensely, his eyes opening tentatively to gaze down onto the road.

_clippety-clippety-clop_ the sound seemed to be coming nearer, and now a bright tinkling, like starlight, accompanied it - bells.

Suddenly, something white burst into view, and Frodo winced, squeezing his eyes shut. He had not realised how close the shadows had pressed until this brightness. He heard the sound of Strider's joyful cry even through the brilliance of the bells, and then a clear voice rang out: "_Ai na vedui Dúnadan! Mae govannen!_"

And yes, it was definitely elves.


	10. Chapter 10

"His wound is grave, Dúnadan." The elf's voice was soft, melodic even as a whisper. Aragorn did not answer. Frodo stirred restlessly in his exhausted sleep near Glorfindel, and the man reached out automatically to stroke the hobbit's face. Frodo settled once more. Glorfindel's face was expressionless as he watched the man's actions keenly.

Eventually the elf continued. "You felt the evil in that blade as much as I did. And that you say it was notched when you first found it . . ." He shook his head. "It does not bode well."

"And yet he has survived this far," Aragorn interjected, his tone harsh but with an undercurrent of pride. He glanced up at the elf and Glorfindel raised an eyebrow, appearing otherwise unruffled.

"Forgive me, my friend," the man sighed, raising his hand from where it rested on Frodo's head to rub his eyes wearily. "My . . . temper has worn thin, I'm afraid. The past week has not been easy for any of us." He blinked down at Frodo. "The littler ones especially."

"Littler in stature, perhaps," Glorfindel said, and Aragorn looked up at him in surprise.

The ranger's lips hinted at a smile, and he spoke softly: "But not in courage." His hand drifted down again to resume its caresses. "Or heart."

"Indeed. Others would have succumbed to the poison much sooner. He has great strength."

"He must, for the burden he carries."

Frodo stirred again, his breath quickening, then hitching in a whimper of pain as his movements jarred his shoulder.

"You speak truly," Glorfindel murmured as he gently lifted Frodo up and settled the hobbit in his lap. "But now is not the time to discuss that matter."

"Of course not," Aragorn said absently, frowning as he watched Frodo struggle a little against dark dreams in the elf's arms. Glorfindel leant over him, murmuring softly, but this time Frodo refused to calm.

"May I . . . ?" Aragorn murmured, rising to his knees and reaching out to rest a hand on Frodo's tense forehead. The hobbit murmured something unintelligible and relaxed back into Glorfindel's arms. The man shuffled forward a little, moving closer to the elf, and not breaking his contact with Frodo. He settled himself down again, not seeming to notice knees brushing against Glorfindel's folded legs as he carefully arranged the hobbit's blankets.

Glorfindel remained still, watching the ranger's gentling touches silently. He frowned slightly.

"Arwen Undómiel is dwelling in Imladris once more," Glorfindel said, his voice neutral.

The man stiffened almost imperceptibly. "My heart is gladdened by these tidings," he murmured.

"As it ought."

"Yes." Aragorn looked up into the elf's eyes, his expression closed. "The roads have been long and cold without her beauty and grace."

"Indeed, her beauty is that of Luthien the fair. There is none to rival her grace on Middle-Earth save perhaps her kindred amongst the Galadhrim."

"You speak truly, my friend. She is indeed a jewel, even amongst your fair folk."

Frodo cried out softly and Aragorn immediately broke eye contact with the elf, leaning down further to cradle the back of Frodo's head as the hobbit jolted back into wakefulness. Frodo's eyes blinked open rapidly, wide with fear and confusion. His right hand flew up to fist tightly on the man's shoulder.

"Aragorn," he breathed as his eyes focussed on the concerned face of the ranger, his grip loosening slightly as he relaxed back a little, breathing heavily. "I -" He frowned, turning his head slightly and squinting a little, as if the brightness of Glorfindel's raiment hurt his eyes. His gaze travelled up to the elf's face, stern and framed with gold above him. Frodo closed his eyes again, hand slipping from Aragorn's shoulder onto his own, resting heavily over the wound.

"We ought to continue. We cannot afford to linger here any longer." Glorfindel continued speaking in elvish, despite the fact that Frodo was obviously awake, tense in the elf's arms. Aragorn sighed, turning to glance at the inert figures of the other three hobbits (more than one of them snoring quite loudly). Asfaloth stamped and tossed his head, bells tinkling softly, white flanks gleaming brilliantly in the morning light.

"We should reach the Ford by tomorrow afternoon, if we can keep up our pace." The ranger spoke in the common tongue, the statement as much for Frodo's peace of mind as to respond to Glorfindel.

"Let us hope that tomorrow afternoon is not too late, and it is held against us." Glorfindel shifted to the common tongue effortlessly, his voice still smooth and melodic, soft and emotionless.


	11. Chapter 11

"By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair, you shall have neither the Ring nor me!"

The cry rang out above the urgent chattering of the water, and in answer Aragorn's heart dug claws into his throat, as if trying to drag itself out his mouth as he flew down the last slope to the Ford.

Frodo was on the other side of the water, a smudge of dark brilliance on the dull white of the horse. An unearthly shriek echoed across the waters, warring with Glorfindel's desperate cries of _Kindle a fire_ as Frodo swayed, body heaving, and his wavering sword broke and fell from his grasp. Then the river was alive, a boiling torrent of whiteness that reared and pawed like wild horses, echoing the poses of the black mounts as flame and the fury of the firstborn drove them into the chaos. Their screams were lost in the roaring crash as they tumbled, over and over, and were swept away.

And Frodo. _Where was Frodo?_ One white horse was left on the far shore as the waters subdued once more to an indignant babble, gleaming but scarcely discernible from the settling mists left by the raging flood. Asfaloth snorted, shaking his soaked mane as he pawed a little at the shingle by a figure, a splash of black, small, unmoving.

One of the hobbits was sobbing. Aragorn barely registered as separate from the pounding of blood in his ears, one heated torrent echoing another as he slogged heavily through the waters after Glorfindel, his brand discarded with a hiss of steam.

"He's alive," Glorfindel said, turning over the figure carefully, but Aragorn didn't believe him until his own hands sought the pulse at Frodo's throat; cold and faint.

Frodo looked dead, or worse. His skin was pale, to the point of transparency, and indeed Aragorn thought he could see a fragile lacework of veins, mercurial blue, traced along Frodo's jaw, his cheek; eyelids bruised.

"Frodo . . . Frodo, is he . . .?" It was Sam, panting and tear-stained, the salty streaks obvious even soaked as he was from his struggle across the Ford. Pain and desperation was in his gaze, his voice. Aragorn tried to curve his mouth up, to twist his lips and tell Sam _he's alive_ when his own voice still hadn't regained it's ability to speak for him.

Frodo didn't respond as Glorfindel gathered him up in his arms; the hobbit's head lolling unnaturally. Aragorn swallowed hard.

"I'll take him on ahead on Asfaloth. You follow with the other hobbits."

"No," Sam and Aragorn both spoke at once, voices hoarse but firm.

Glorfindel's eyes widened a little as he glanced down at the Sam - who's arms were firmly crossed despite the tight trembling of his lips - then narrowed as he looked back up at the ranger.

"We've come this far with Frodo, we can't leave him now, not when he needs us most," Merry spoke up, his lips blue with cold and arms curled around a shivering Pippin. The younger hobbit was staring at Frodo's face, wide-eyes red rimmed. He reached up a shaking hand to touch the dark, wet curls.

"You won't be able to keep up. I have to get him to Lord Elrond as quickly as possible." Glorfindel's voice remained firm.

"His condition is too fragile. To risk transporting him at the kind of speed you are considering - on _horseback_ \- would be madness."

"Estel--"

The significance of the use of Aragorn's childhood name was not lost on him, despite the unaltered tone of the elf's voice. The man clenched his fists and continued, struggling to maintain evenness in his own voice. "And besides, I know from _experience_ that Frodo fares better when surrounded by his trusted companions."

There was a tense silence, the air electric, Frodo's limp form seeming to be the only relaxed figure among them.

"Very well. The younger hobbits may ride, that will speed up our pace a little. I will carry Frodo, and make sure he suffers no more harm."

Aragorn's eyes glittered, but he made no response to the elf, instead gripping first Pippin under the arms and swinging him into the saddle, then setting Merry behind him.

"Come on, Sam," Aragorn said softly, stooping to help Sam struggle with the straps on his pack, peeling away the sopping cloak. Sam caught his hand and squeezed it briefly, looking up at him with a weak smile of . . . reassurance?

Aragorn's heart clenched, and he rested his hand on Sam's damp shoulder for a moment before hurriedly fastening the pack to Asfaloth's saddle and slapping the stallion's rump, urging it after the Glorfindel; the elf was already making his way steadily down towards Rivendell.


	12. Chapter 12

He thought he'd never seen anything so small as Frodo's hand - a tiny white flower unfurled and hanging free limply from the rest of him, a bundle of rags dark and wet in Glorfindel's arms. He longed to take that hand (if only to return it to it's owner instead of leaving to hang as if discarded) but at the thought of his hands - too large, too rough - enveloping or even touching that white waxen one made something akin to fear rise in him.

And yet it was more regret than fear he felt as he was ushered out of the huge, ornate room; elaborate door closing quitely but firmly in his face, shutting out the view of that tiny figure lying boneless on a bed that seemed about to swallow him, the view of his step-father methodically stripping away the travel-worn clothes from Frodo's limp body.

And the memory of that hand, so white - whiter than Glorfindel's raiment - and so small, seemed to have burned into his eyelids, flashing in front of him when he blinked, and when he closed his eyes and leant against the wall, a wave of exhaustion rising in his throat like tears.

Soft footsteps brought his eyes open again; Sam glanced at him briefly, brow furrowed, before slipping into the room silently. No sooner than he'd disappeared did another appear in the hall outside the sick-room, an elf - dark hair and fair features marking her as one of Elrond's household.

"Dunedain," she said softly, inclining her head slightly in greeting; he scarce had chance to nod or speak in response before she swept away - seeming to _glide_ \- down the hall. His wearied thought took a while to catch up and he stood still a moment, then followed slowly. Rest, yes. If there was anything he needed, it was _rest_.

"He's awake."

Aragorn jumped at the sudden voice, starting upright and fumbling at his belt for a non-existant sword hilt.

"What's this?" Gandalf raised an eyebrow, a hint of gentle mocking in his voice. "A Ranger caught off his guard?"

"You startled me," Aragorn murmured, sinking back onto the bench. "It's easy to get lost in one's thoughts in a place like this."

"Indeed," Gandalf said, glancing out over the vista; evergreen and autumn gold foliage shimmering behind an eternal mist, rising with the constant sound of roaring water. He settled down at the other end of the stone bench, propping his staff behind him and resting his hands on his knees.

"Frodo's awake, you say," Aragorn murmured at length, absently massaging the ball of his thumb as he stared out beyond the balcony. "All traces of the shard were removed, then?"

"As far as we can tell, at this stage," Gandalf replied. "But he's not unchanged, by this and everything else that happened since he left his home."

"The other hobbits have spoken to you of what has befallen them between here and the Shire, then?" Aragorn asked quietly, his voice devoid of anything but curiousity, but his nervous glance at the wizard betrayed him.

"Yes," Gandalf said, drawing out a long-stemmed pipe from the folds of his robes. A tobacco pouch followed it, and Aragorn watched as the wizard shook out some loose leaf and tapped it into the bowl of the pipe. "And Frodo spoke in his sleep."

"Ah," Aragorn breathed tensely, and seperated his twisting hands to rest on his thighs. Gandalf didn't respond, instead sending a small cloud of grey and white smoke rings hovering over his head. "Then," Aragorn prompted at length, and Gandalf turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

"Then what?"

"Then . . . I . . . Frodo is well, then?"

"He's still weak, which is to be expected, but seems to have recovered faster than even I could have hoped for. Hobbits are quite stubborn creatures, in both body and spirit." A small red smoke ring wafted up into the cloud. "But no doubt you discovered that on your journey, with the time you spent with them."

Aragorn blinked. "Yes. They can be quite surprising in their . . . Stubbornness."

Gandalf turned, peering at him from under bushy eyebrows. "Frodo, especially, can be quite surprising." He leant forward a little, his tone sobering. "But something tells me the worse is yet to come for him."

A hint of a frown creased the Ranger's brow. "Surely Frodo's 'adventure' ends here in Imladris," he said, half questioning.

Gandalf leaned back, turning again to face out over the balcony. "Perhaps," he said at length. "Perhaps not. I don't think even Elrond can predict what will happen next in this chapter. And he and I have spoken long on these matters."

Aragorn remained silent, unsure of whether the wizard would continue or not, but knowing from experience to listen rather than question. The steady murmur of the falls were on the brink of coalescing into coherent speech before Gandalf spoke again.

"But he has borne his burden so far with the aid of friends," he said, voice deep and rough, but familiar. He looked up at Aragorn again. "And I expect that, should he continue to carry it beyond this, she should need their aid still."

"Then--"

"Strength breeds strength, Aragorn. And courage breeds courage. And darkness is eased by warmth, and light. You have _many_ responsibilities, my friend. Your honour rests on unspoken vows also."

"Gandalf!"

The murmured tones of the wizard's voice mingled with the muted roar of the water were broken by a high, piping voice.

"Slow _down_, Pip, he doesn't move so fast that he won't still be there if you _walk_."

Gandalf chuckled, taking the pipe out of his mouth for a moment to peer back over his shoulder. "With all the noise you're making, I'd be a fool not to escape while I still can," he called out, mock-sternly, and soon two puffing hobbits came into view.

"We heard an elf say Frodo was awake!" exclaimed Pippin as soon as he had breath enough. "Oh, hullo Strider! We heard Lord Elrond was looking for you as well."

Merry elbowed him. "Not that we were _eaves_dropping, you understand," he said, looking from Gandalf to Aragorn in turn. "But sometimes they don't even notice us from up there, and, well . . . It would be rude to interrupt when they're talking about _serious_ things . . ."

"Enough!" Gandalf chuckled. "Yes, Frodo is awake, and no doubt he'll be out here shortly."

"He's all right then?" Merry asked, an edge of concern for his cousin still present in his voice.

"Yes," Gandalf said. "Or at least for the time being, until he's no doubt overwhelmed by you two in his weakened state. You'll have to be gentle with him, or I may be forced to turn you _both_ into firecrackers, and set you off to the celebration of all in Rivendell."

"Oh, we will," Pippin said cheerfully.

"Gandalf," murmured Aragorn, rising from the bench. "I must take my leave - if Elrond wishes to speak with me . . ."

"You won't stay to see Frodo, then?" Gandalf asked, his voice revealing nothing but curiosity.

"No, I. . ." He glanced down at Merry and Pippin. "I think I'll leave that to his kinsmen."

"Very well then," Gandalf said, and returned back to the hobbits' insistent questioning. Aragorn walked out of the light and into the more darkened interior of the house, heading toward a passageway he knew led straight to his foster-father's chambers. The sound of the falls were already becoming more remote behind him, and just before he turned off into the passage he paused, hearing a high voice call out distantly behind him, "Hurray! Make way for Frodo, Lord of the Ring!"


End file.
